The Fairness of Futures
by Scout-G
Summary: Set directly after TROTG, Daine and Numair sort out what is to become of their friendship and their life's paths, be they one or seperate. (A work in progress, also my first.)
1. A Matter of Time

"The midnight hour, and all is we-ell."

Her visitors didn't ruffle a feather at the watchman's call. Two weeks of sitting in windows and listening to humans come and go had a way of desensitizing even their delicate ears to the strange ways of the Two-Legger world. The barn owl, in from her brief evening's hunt, alighted on the sill next to a pair of grey squirrels-- _To anyone not familiar with the ways of this new animalian world in Tortall, that sight would be unnatural.. to say the least, _thought the dark-haired man sadly, similar to the creatures in that he, too, had taken up a bedside vigil._ '_Unnatural', though, had come to mean many things to him over the past three years.

"She hasn't stirred this evening," he said to no one in particular.

Always willing to voice her opinion, the lithe dragonet chirruped a weary answer. Numair shifted his line of focus to Kit, curled comically in a scale-and-wing ball at the end of the bed. Mountains of quilts upon valleys of blankets served a double purpose, as dragon nest and an extra source of heat for the brown-haired figure buried within them. The mage's own magic kept the room an even temperature despite a number of open windows which allowed Daine's vigilantes from the People to come and go as they pleased. Numair cast his eyes over the cold plates of food that friends had left in hopes that he would be tempted to eat; hunger pangs were quickly dulled by those of worry. Worry that her sleep had lasted too long, worry that things were changing faster than either of them could keep pace with. He thanked Shakith that the treaties were going well enough that his presence wasn't needed. Though there were many who would have gladly taken his place that night and all the other nights, he felt that it was his duty alone. If she were to wake up, it would be his hand that she touched first; his face her eyes would light upon. If she were to wake up. If.

"Magelet." All the Gift in the world couldn't necessarily wake a half-comatose body. The mage didn't know if love could. He shifted in the great old chair, drawing his legs up and draping them over the armrest. For all the world he looked like a little boy, waiting patiently for Midwinter morning to come so he could open his presents. His dark lids lowered for a moment, sleep never really coming, never really staying. The creatures dozed comfortably, though-- the courage Numair lacked was matched by the faith the People felt. It was only a matter of time. What happened when those blue-greys opened again, though, could be anyone's guess.

* * *

_**Thanks, all, for reading. I'm brand-new to FanFiction in general, so please keep that in mind when launching into my faults and failures, hehe. I'd like to thank a certain Miss Grober for her excellent editing work: she is aspiring to a career which I believe suits her very well. I love ya, Steph! Oh, and as for my writing.. there's more to come, obviously. This is the story I have always wanted to write about my favorite characters created by Ms. Pierce (to whom I must give credit for her amazing books). Let me know how you feel about this piece, and once again—thanks for taking a little look-see. -**Scout_


	2. By the Goddess, the Girl !

Onua and Daine had managed, with the help of a fussy dragonchild and a patient basilisk, to return the fatigued Numair to Port Legann faster than the battles could even be jotted down in the Eastern history books. His battle with Inar Hadensra had more than drained him: he had been too weak to do little more than hold on to Onua's gelding's saddlehorn with one hand and smile lovingly at the bruised and bedraggled Daine. By the time they had reached the castle, a ship was already being loaded for the Swoop and by order of Jonathan himself the pair of mages, student and master, had been carefully loaded on board. The journey home had been uneventful, considering the manner of beastie and enemy that had been battling in those very waters only days before.

The two stayed handfast for the whole of the trip, their combined strength keeping them alive just enough to enjoy each other's company. Those on board had left them alone for the most part; few apart from their closest friends could make heads or tails of the sudden change in the nature of their relationship. Master Numair-- wasn't he considered to be the most well-educated connoisseur of classy ladies of the court? And the girl, the strange one-- she was no doubt pretty in a roguish sort of way, but in all honesty, she was the kind of odd prodigy that could only be doomed for a spinster's life. Not to mention the years that separated them. Still, the nurses and maids went about settling the two in, clucking and fussing about their health and their healing. It wasn't long before they were whisked into private towers high in the Swoop's main house, separated by the most well-meaning of people in the name of decency. After all-- people **would **talk about that sort of thing, you know.

Numair awoke within two days, his Gift already trickling back in and his strength returning due to possets and a well-deserved sleep. He rose out of bed slowly, ponderously, his mind not yet wrapped around What Had Happened or even Where He Was. Snippets of memory came to him, and, not bothering to pull a shirt over his breeches, he trotted down the hall to where he could only hope Daine would be.

As groggy as he was, the mage didn't give a moment's thought to the fact that he had been unshaven for a week and that he wore no clothes outside of the barest minimum required to save one's self from complete embarrassment. _I recall them taking her downstairs,_ he thought, _A most preposterous as any of a place to put that blessed girl_. With each commanding step he took down the generously-décor'd hallway his dark brows furrowed deeper and the stormclouds in his mind rolled more violently. _Who's idea was it to drag us apart, anyhow? Rather, who's business? And to put her so far away as to not have a window to cast those stormy eyes out of? Who is attending her-- why not me? Mithros, I'll bet no one even tried to rouse me! I'd give half my mother's estate to know just who arranged---_ It was Numair's personal custom to fight fear with belligerence, even to the point at which he found himself now: dizzy, disoriented, and in desperate need of a place to sit himself down. He stopped his frantic striding for a split second, his pause coinciding perfectly with the exit of Melle, a healer's helper, from one of the other, unoccupied chambers.

Melle's days had been more than busy for the past while. The Baron had been all in a heated tizzy (and to think, Baron Cooper in a tizzy! To imagine such a great, laughing man in any state of flailing hands and worried glances caused a smirk to cross the servant's plump cheek) over the pair of mages they had shipped in since the treaty signing, just days before. Rather, the Baron's wife and the rest of the blasted countryside had been clamoring for news of the latest Tortallan heroes-- had they woken? Were they healing? And the undercurrent of it all was possibly the most intriguing of questions--- were they **really **in love? Melle tried not to preoccupy herself with such things. Her worries were to care for the healers; the cleaning, the starching, the dusting, the tidying, the polishing, the washing, the folding, the carrying of things that healers needed but always seemed to be too busy to drag about themselves. The two 'heroes' –for whatever reason, that's what the pair was being called— had been nice and quiet and slumbering, leaving Melle free to go about her duties. Suddenly, though, all the peaceable routine which had finally returned to the Swoop was flipped topside, bellyside, and halfway in between: a half-naked MAN with half a beard crawling across his swarthy cheek was stamping about her dust-free hallway, screeching like a nighthawk!

" Great Mother Goddess! Of all the; my stars! My blessed, blessed stars! What in the name of---" Melle couldn't figure whether it was more proper to cover her mouth, for fear of letting a volley of bad utterances fly, or to cover her eyes from the partial nudity of the spectacle. Taking into account the comely, though lean, physique of the spectacle in question, she didn't bother to bat an eyelash.

"I need to know where Daine is." Numair had long ago lost his ability to skirt around a subject of such importance.

"Daine..?" Even her vague knowledge of gossip failed her.

"DAINE."

"The girl. Oh, by the Goddess, the girl!" The pile of starched sheets fell from their shelving on her vast bosom; the maid's brown-sugar eyes widened and her chapped lips snapped into the picture of pity. "A floor down, Sir. The girl is just a floor down."

Perhaps it was his exhaustion that caused him to pause so, but Numair held her glance for longer than necessary to receive the inaudible message. Whilst he had sprung from his bed sheets with relative ease, ranting to himself about the injustice of not beholding his studentlove, he had expected Daine to be doing much the same only in the reverse: she should be pouting that soft lower lip, furrowing her brow and looking like the little girl she all but was, denied a sweet by an elder.

She was not, however; not unless it was only in dream.


	3. Nodding

George leaned against the doorframe, one hand stroking his ever-so-slightly-too-big nose retrospectively. There weren't many years separating him and old Salmalin, he knew. _If we had both grown up in his cities of Tyra, I would've probably picked on that long-legged boy until I'd gotten my tail end singed by a stray bit of magic_, he chuckled. Despite the situation, the thought brought a wry dimpled grin to the edge of his clean-shaven face. To poke fun at a black-robe, now there was a job for the Trickster himself.

The nature of things took away his moment of frivolity, and the Baron wrapped his burly arms about each other in concern. His longtime friend drifted somewhere near slumber, long-fingered hands buried within a tumble of black curls that could do for a little serum and combing. Though his deep eyes were slitted open, he wasn't focusing on anything, not even the feminine form buried in bedclothes across from him. The hopeful trays of lukewarm food had long been carried off and replaced with pitchers of water; another vein attempt to keep the Master from withering away altogether. The little dragon had been lured away for the afternoon by Thom and Alianne, warming her scales in the spring sunbeams and stretching her growing muscles. _It won't do for them to all fade into the Black God's realm, _George thought, lifting his weight off of the doorframe.

Just as the Baron turned to go, a myriad of other things awaiting him at his desk, Numair raised his clouded eyes and shakily shifted positions on his perch.

"George," he started.

Caught by surprise, the Baron's mouth opened a bit, his words taking wings and flying somewhere other than out of his voicebox. The mage hadn't said a word to anyone since the whole incident in the hallway a fortnight ago. After sending the maid into a fit of gabbing and shaking, and easily ignoring the Healer's pleas for reason, Numair had whisked his sleeping lady upstairs to the very chamber where she continued to lie. The majority of his house thought the mage mad: wide-open windows made for chill, and who was he to diagnose the girl? George had let him be, however. Matters of the heart he did not always understand, but he would never underestimate their importance.

"Draper," the Baron forced words and a crooked smile. He didn't bother to correct his use of Numair's boyhood name. It was of little matter. "Feeling up for a walk?"

"No," came the solemn reply. He hadn't stopped looking at Daine's cherubic face on the pillow. "But you can.. " The mage's mind had had a pension for wandering before all this mess; now it was even worse.

"Stay? I'd be delighted, old friend." George stiffly walked inside, leaned against the stone wall, and slid to the floor. His good graces in other company were only just a ploy to keep the old Lioness from ripping him to shreds at dinner parties. At heart, George was all Player.

He hesitated. "Any-- changes?"

"None."

A long silence.

George's broad shoulders slumped just a bit. His words came in a tumble. He couldn't tell which of them he had said, which Alanna had said, and which he had heard from random sources on the street. "It isn't your fault. You can't blame yourself for it. No one knows how these things work, Numair— No one's ever been a mutt like that; even you can't know all the in's and out's of _her_ manner of ladychild. She isn't ill in the sense of Healer-talk, y'know; she's just needing to accustom to being back in the Realm is all. You told us what she told you; who's to say it's truth or tale? God-born, why it makes a bit of sense, doesn't it, Draper? I mean, only gods could put such a curse of attraction as she's put on ye.."

The younger man's lips drew into a thin line. George had crossed some unseen boundary, but by the Goddess he was being damn near unreasonable about this whole thing! For all they knew, their Wildmage would be up in a flash: _She's not wounded, _he thought,_ she's not coughin', she's just.. **out**. And all these stories that were runnin' around of her! Ones even the Blackrobe confirmed! After all,---_

"Do you think it's wrong?"

George blanched. A number of things were amiss here, but Numair could only mean--

"It's fourteen years. My parents were nine years apart."

_Oh, so it's that Wrong he wants to right, _the Baron pondered, scuffing a boot along the marble floor and leaving a deliciously muddy streak that Melle would certainly have a time cleaning up later. "I'm not the one to decide, Numair."

The pause was eternal. Numair's hand fell across the quilt, just inches shy of Daine's softly calloused one. He moved it to the left, then the right-- never taking hers, never moving away. George wasn't as used to romance as the mage was; he'd been in love once and managed to stay there happily. The very notion of what took place before his spying eyes was hard enough for an old Rogue like him to understand. Sure, people would always talk: can't stop that, no matter the legitimacy of a thing-- was it right by the girl, though?

_Something in the way that that great man looks like a lost pup tells me this isn't just a midlife fancy. Draper isn't the type to reduce himself to anything; but here he is, good as a baby chick in a schoolgirl's hand. It's strange, but.._

"Draper, you have my nod."

George rose from his floorside chair and placed a worn hand on the mage's shoulder. If Numair noticed, he said nothing; his fingers slipped cautiously into those of the Wildmage. The Baron knew his place; he slipped out the door, whispering to himself a prayer for Whatever Time Might Tell.


	4. Open Eyes

Horse Lords, she was **hot**.

Before she could even go about the task of opening her eyes, Daine felt as if she had been baking in a sweaty steambath while wearing Ozorne's old fur coats and doing stomach-crunches. She lifted a hand to her brow; it was dripping with perspiration, and the girl had never been much of a sweater, even in combat. With one satisfying thrust, the majority of her confines slumped to the floor, along with a housecat, a nest of field mice, and assorted pillows. Still blind, she apologized profoundly to those she had misplaced-- _So sorry, fur-friends. I feel that you all might be just a little too warm-blooded for me!_

Finally, her eyelashes fluttered open. _This is all well and good. I'm happy to see you all-- but what, pray tell, is going on? _she muttered to the menagerie that littered the rafters, windowsills, and lampshades of the room. She appeared to be in a tower, judging by the lack of greenspace outside her window. All she could see was pure blue-and-white sky, and it was apparently long past noon. The People said little to nothing; some cooed their approval, others licked a paw in welcome or scratched mites distractedly. None seemed surprised to see the girl up and about, but all were pleased. Daine smiled ruefully: animals **always** knew better than Two-Leggers. In Tortall, that was practically common knowledge.

Turning to the bedside chair, Daine's heart executed a momentary summersault. There, curled in a preposterous position, lay Numair, his lips dry and parted in sleeptalk and his eyes rammed tightly shut. 'Tousled' did not begin to describe the mess that was his hair, although Daine could surmise that hers was probably in a similar condition. _He looks sick, he looks disheveled, he looks like the damned Graveyard Hag.. but oh, I don't mind an inkling._ She slid out of the crisp ivory bedsheets, not caring that her white nightdress was close to transparent from cold sweat. Numair was snoring very softly, a thing he only did when he was out of his mind with worry or anger. The Wildmage giggled as she lifted his arm off of the bed--- _what in the name of the gods had he been doing in such a strange position? Holding these blankets on me so I'd suffocate?-- _and wrapped it around her damp shoulder. She climbed into his lap, hands walking up his chest to stop just below the neck, where she could feel his steady, comforting heartbeat. Both of them had lost much of the sinewy musculature that months of travel and battle had bought them, but to her infinite delight, he was still the same Numair. Daine traced his face with a forefinger as lightly as downfeathers float on air currents; each angle and curve she had measured in her mind for three years, but to feel them now brought life back into her bones.

"I don't know why you sleep so soundly, Salmalin, but you look more and more like a worried schoolboy the longer I watch you. Tell me why you rest so fretfully," she whispered, not caring if he heard or didn't hear. It felt good to carry on a conversation with him, be it one-sided or two. "Why does it seem that I haven't seen you in a lifetime?"

The crinkled brow lifted; dark lids raised like drawbridges in a steady pull. The creature that had walked only in his dreams was smiling at him; Numair blinked slowly once, twice, making sure he could differentiate between reality and Gainel's channelings.

"Magelet?"

"Mmmhmm." She pressed her warm hands to his cheek, her straight nose touching his long one in the sweetest of meetings.

Numair choked back a laugh. "I thought I'd lost you. Again. Tell me how long you plan to stay with me this time?"

" Maybe forever." Her voice was drowsy and disastrously Gallan again, but it smiled along with that very unladylike chin.

"Then good." He sighed wetly and snugged his lips against her cool forehead, grammatical errors long forgotten. "Forever is good."


	5. Desire versus Hesitance

The two stayed nestled together for nearly two hours. George accidentally strode up the tower once, on a mission to stuff at least a roll or two down Numair's throat, and had stumbled across the heartstring-playing scene. Leaping down the stairs, he forcefully kept the Healer and his chicken's-roost of helpers from bothering the pair, promising curses to their ancestors and sharp cuts to their payroll if they dared disrupt the reunion.

"No, I don't understand what brought the lass back, but Mithros help me if I let you go a-questionin' her about it! Give 'em time; time we have plenty of. Noone's losin' any strength 'round here no more!" he barked to a particularly nosy maid, slamming the wooden tower door with more force than would be necessary to topple the whole thing over.

Upstairs, Daine lifted her face from Numair's, studying him while simultaneously trying to put his mess of hair to rights. He laughed and shook out her painstaking work, and Daine stuck out her tongue impishly, leaping to her feet.

"I was only trying to make you presentable, Master Salmalin. The court gossips will talk if you look like you've been rolling around on the floor with the dogs." She fell back on the bed, crossing her arms and protruding her chin like the stubborn girl she was.

" Dogs isn't what I'd like to hear. A pretty child of the gods.. perhaps.." Numair shakily lifted himself from the chair and hit the bed belly-up, his face on the same level as his student's. Daine rolled her impetuous eyes and shoved him with a shoulder.

"I apologize, Your Greatness. Can I be of a nobler service to you?"

_His tone is wicked_, Daine noted, as he rolled over, one hand bracing his body just six inches on top of hers. _But, oh bless it, wicked is.. amazing_. If their breathing aligned right, his chest would touch hers.. they were infinitely close, melted together in the warmth of the bedsheets and the cool of the air. Every curve of her soft body fell in perfectly with the angles of his own. Inches of air separated them-- only **inches**. Daine's breath caught in her nearly-bare chest, her fire-lit eyes speaking volumes about both hesitance and desire-- two very different and very dangerous things. Numair saw—and felt—the thinness of her nightdress and cursed the maids for putting on such a wretchedly skimpy thing.

_She's tentative, the _mage realized, mind drawn away from feminine topography. His dark eyes softened, the intensity of their gaze waning as he struggled with himself to keep matters light for the time being.

"What ever happened to good old flannel?" He chuckled, lifting himself up a bit, just to dispel the rest of his temptations. "Flannel would be much more proper for a healing goddess."

Daine shook her head and laughed, her feelings once again mashed into a mixture of uncertainty.

"Goddess, hah." She scooted out from under his lanky form, escaping to the opposite side of the bed and only barely managing to keep from stepping on one of the cats. Glancing about, she realized that none of the People had blinked an eye about the whole escapade. _Do you all ENJOY watching?! _She exclaimed, wringing her hands in her tangle of brown waves. Her face breaking into a disarming grin, Daine laughed as she lumped the spilled pillows and quilts back on top of the bed. Demi-goddess or no, her Ma had taught her never to leave a mess in someone else's cottage-- err, castle. Numair, too, stood up and set the room to rights slowly, his bones unhappy from their sudden increase of use. Whereas the girl had risen from the dead with a song in her heart, he had caught but a few hour's rest in a fortnight. _Watching her, though,_ _sends my spirits soaring on hawk's wings again_.

Rounding the bed, Daine clasped her hand (which, for whatever reason, was small even for her five feet and eight inches) in the Numair's massive one. She tugged it vehemently towards the hall in the direction of the stair.

"Come on, Mage. You've probably kept the whole house awake with your snoring.. let's go tell them we're feeling as fit as colts in the summer rain, shall we?"

"Speak only of yourself. I could use a night's sleep--"

"-- what do you call that thing you just woke up from?"

"A cat nap!"

"I know cats that sleep for months! Now c'mon, nobleman, tell me what I've missed this past day."

Numair stopped, pulling his lighthearted mistress back 'til she faced him once more. "This past **day**? Magelet, you've been out of this realm for more than two **weeks**. You've had the entire countryside on their knees in the temples praying that the strangest of their saviors makes it through the summertime!"

The gravity of it all hit Daine with a force similar to that of a freshly-awoken wooly mammoth. "Weeks?" she squeaked, tightening her grip around his enormous hand.

"Weeks."

"Well," she said decidedly, eyes lowered, "I've a lot to catch up on. I think you'd best get started, Teacher."

Numair sighed and pulled her to him, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are too much to handle," he croaked, wrapping his arms firmly about her gentle curves. _How can anything wield such power and hold such strength and still be such a child? And what have I done?_ The two rocked back and forth in a lover's embrace for long moments, neither saying anything. _Thank the gods she's back—but am I right in wanting to keep her?_


End file.
